I opened the door and watched the postman’s face fall. “Package for Mr. Carter,” he said. “I’ll need him to sign.” “Steve?” I called out. “Stop tarting yourself up and get out here.” Steve bounced out of the bathroom with a cloud of steam and a waft of that spicy aftershave I love on him. God knew how he managed to while away so much time in there every morning. My entire pre-work routine consisted of pulling back on yesterday’s clothes followed by a cup of strong black coffee. Mind you, Steve did end up looking a hell of a lot better than I did, so maybe all that primping and preening was worth it. “Hi, Steve. Got a big ‘un for you today.” The postman held out his clipboard so that Steve could sign for the package, and I didn’t miss the way his gaze went roaming over Steve’s immaculate pinstripes. Somehow, in his six months of living with me, Steve had managed to befriend more locals than I had in the last five years. He now had a tab at the corner shop, knew all the neighbors in our building, and was even on first name terms with the postman.
